by Mary Moody
I was thrilled to be back. The villagers greeted me warmly and my wide circle of friends embraced me with delight. Lunches and dinners and sight-seeing expeditions of the region filled my days and evenings with fun, and I wondered how I was ever going to settle back into farm life in Bathurst after another dose of southwest France.
Then something happened that changed everything. Forever.
While balancing the mix of work and pleasure, I stumbled into the early stages of the relationship with the man with whom I would have a passionate affair the following year – the man from Toulouse. Although at this stage the relationship was not physical, it hit me like a bolt out of the blue and I was deeply disturbed by what had been stirred inside me. My mental confusion was so apparent, even at that embryonic stage, that when I returned to Australia at the end of the month-long visit David instantly recognised the first signs that there were rocky times ahead.
So unsettled was my state of mind that I sought professional counselling for the first time in my life and, as I picked up the threads of writing the book, I decided to document the way I was feeling, because the act of accepting outside help was for me a huge admission of vulnerability. All my life I had coped with problems and challenges on my own. My unsettled early childhood, the ups and downs of my marriage, dealing with my ageing live-in mother and the trials and tribulations of rearing four teenage children with a frequently absent, work-obsessed husband. I had become smug about my ability to handle the rough with the smooth, so it was only natural that I would be rattled by confronting a situation over which I felt I had absolutely no control.
At this time I decided to speak to my publisher and confide in him that I didn’t know how I was going to deal with the writing of this next book. I wasn’t confident I could continue writing it at all. I explained, without giving away too much detail, that my life was in a state of emotional turmoil and that there was a possibility that my seemingly stable marriage might be about to crumble around me. How could I write a happy, upbeat book about my midlife adventures in France when my life as I knew it was falling apart?
This eight-month period between when I came back from France in October with the possibility of a love affair looming and when I returned the following May to lead a garden tour was the most troubled in our lives. Knowing that there had been a huge emotional shift, David and I established an intimacy and intensity in our relationship that we hadn’t experienced in years. It was as if there was a sword dangling over our marriage. Writing the book became almost impossible, and I wondered how I would ever meet the deadline at the end of the year. And what would I write about? How could I produce an honest and credible account of this phase of my life if there was a dark secret I was unable to include as part of the story?
After the garden tour of France and England I went back to Frayssinet and recklessly launched myself into the love affair that had been smouldering in the background. David briefly came to stay after his annual trip to the Cannes Film Festival and it was obvious to him from the moment he arrived that what he had feared since last year had actually transpired. He said nothing at the time, but waited until I came home in July to confront me with his certainty of my infidelity. It was a nightmare.
As if dealing with the ramifications of the affair wasn’t enough to contend with, we also had to grapple with the issue of the book I was supposed to be writing. While we were struggling to repair our damaged relationship, the situation was compounded by the prospect of a book that would add further pain to our fragile state of mind. I argued that if it was to be written at all, the book must be totally honest to ring true with the readers. But David believed that this major crisis in our lives was deeply personal and therefore should not be included in my story.
That same September I returned to France to lead the village walking tour that had been twelve months in the planning. The agreement I made with David was that I should meet briefly with my lover in Toulouse and end the affair. This I did, and despite the intense pain I experienced ending what had been such a significant relationship, I hoped it would be enough to salvage my marriage. Then two unexpected and quite overwhelming events intervened. Just when I thought I was getting my life back on track, it went even more haywire. The events were sexual and in many ways quite shocking, and I knew that the only way I could survive was to keep them completely secret from David. Our relationship, which even at its most troubled had been open and honest, was now to become one of lies and deceit.
After the walking tour I returned to Australia and was left with just a few months to finish writing the book. David and I were constantly at each other’s throats debating the rights and wrongs of how the story should be told.
‘It’s difficult enough dealing with what’s happened in our marriage,’ David would storm. ‘But including it all in a book will make it ten times worse. It will never end, it will just keep coming back to haunt us. What will it be like when the book comes out? The publicity? The reviews?’
I was overwhelmed with frustration and confusion. I couldn’t see how I could simply ignore or skim over an event that was so fundamental to the narrative. The readers would expect an honest account of my journey through mid-life, no matter how rocky. Yet I knew I had already hurt David deeply, and writing the story in a book would drag that pain into the future.
As the deadline approached I became more and more agitated over my inability to articulate on the page. This was a situation I had never encountered before. Writing had always come easily to me, but this time every hour spent at the computer was pure agony. Our usually joyful family Christmas came and went, much more strained than usual, and I had less than a month to hand over the manuscript.
David hovered nervously around the house, popping in and out of my office and asking me constantly how the writing was going. Well, it wasn’t going anywhere. I was going round and round in circles – writing all sorts of trivial side stories to avoid tackling what had become the central issue.
One morning I sat at the keyboard and decided that the only way ahead was to write openly about my affair with the man from Toulouse. Not in any graphic sexual detail, but just how it felt. I tried desperately in my writing to pinpoint the emotional aspects of this unexpected and passionate relationship. The anticipation, the fear, the excitement, the intensity, the love – and then the pain of the abrupt ending. It was barely four pages. I gave it to David to read and his response was shattering. Seeing it on the page was even more distressing than all the soul-searching conversations we had been through as I struggled to explain the way I was feeling. For me, the writing had been cathartic. We spent days and days in tears, sometimes shouting at each other, sometimes holding each other close. We often fell into bed for the afternoon, clinging to each other, exhausted by the process. Nothing was resolved.
2
Three weeks before the deadline I knew the book would never be finished in time at the rate I was going. David was adamant that what I had written about the affair could not be woven into the book. I, on the other hand, believed it was an essential part of my story. We reached a stalemate.
I am phobic about deadlines after years and years of working as a journalist, and my mood darkened daily as I realised I had written myself into a corner. David went into Bathurst every day to the gym, and one morning I watched from my office window as his car disappeared down the long drive and out towards the highway. The computer screen sat blankly staring at me. I knew I had to get out.
I drove my ute – the farm vehicle – around to the front door and unplugged my computer. It’s a huge, awkward collection of equipment, including a 45-centimetre screen, and weighs a tonne. I lugged it bit by bit out to the car and strapped it into the front seat, hoping that I would manage to reassemble it correctly when I reached my destination. Not that I knew where I was going, just that I had to find a quiet place, away from all possible distractions, to finish my story.
I threw a few clothes into a bag and headed off, leaving a message for David
on his mobile phone message bank: ‘When you get back from town I won’t be here. Don’t worry, I haven’t run away again. I just need to go somewhere where I can finish the book in peace. I’ll phone you when I’m settled. Love you, bye.’
I drove gingerly towards Lithgow with the computer bouncing wildly on the front seat because the ute has bad suspension. I started to worry that the journey might damage the hard drive – then what would I do? The book would be lost, as in my harried state I hadn’t thought to back up the manuscript before I left. But in a funny way I thought losing the book at this stage mightn’t be such a bad thing. It would certainly eliminate the impasse between me and my husband.
In Lithgow I started investigating motels but quickly discovered they were all booked out. It was during the January bushfires and visiting fire-fighters had taken over every room. Not wanting to go to the mountains, I took a right turn and headed towards Oberon. The road was really bumpy – almost a dirt track in places – and the computer was having a very rough ride indeed. The first motel on the left as I drove into town had a huge, ugly fish, at least five metres high, positioned near the entrance. It was called ‘The Big Trout Motor Inn’ and I suppose was intended to attract the custom of fishermen who come to the region for the excellent fly fishing. I booked a room for two weeks, nervously reconnected the computer cables and plugged in the telephone wire in the hope of being able to send emails. I held my breath as I switched the computer on, but to my great relief it all worked perfectly. Even the internet connected. The first thing I did was to send a copy of the existing manuscript to my email address, where it could be retrieved should anything go wrong with the computer.
The rooms at the Big Trout are large and comfortable and air-conditioned, which was a godsend in the stifling heat of that particular January. Fortunately there was also a large round table capable of accommodating my computer and all the various print-outs of the manuscript. I set myself up with some basic groceries so that I wouldn’t need to leave the room during the day. I really wanted to maximise the amount of work I could achieve in the short time left to me. The owners probably thought I was eccentric. I refused housekeeping and locked myself away like a recluse with the curtains drawn and only the hum of my computer’s hard drive for company. I told them I would accept phone calls but none came through. Nobody really knew where I was, which suited me fine.
I started to write in earnest. Without the distractions of the farm and the pressure I felt from David’s discomfort at the content of the book, it flowed from my fingertips at an alarming rate. I established a routine of getting up early and writing for three hours in my nightdress, with several cups of tea to sustain me. I then showered, made my own breakfast and continued to write for another three hours or more. I made a light lunch in my room and lay down for an hour to sleep or read. I wrote again all afternoon until hunger started to distract me, and then I went out for the first and only time of the day. Up to the local pub for a steak sandwich and a beer or two.
It was a blissful existence requiring no effort apart from the creative process of writing. For the first time I could appreciate why so many writers find it impossible to concentrate with all the distractions of home. While I could easily bash out a gardening book with kids creating havoc all around me, when it came to writing in a deeper emotional sense I needed absolute peace and quiet. The Big Trout Motor Inn, phoney fish and all, was my haven.
I phoned David to tell him where I was and to reassure him I was safe. I also told him I was doing my best to write the book without any reference to the love affair. I painstakingly removed all references to it in the manuscript, and tried to flesh out other aspects of my travels instead. David sounded relieved, and surprisingly wasn’t at all fazed by my sudden disappearance. He even offered to come over one evening and take me out for a meal. Which he did, and we had a very relaxed, stress-free evening together. Better than we had managed in months.
The rest of the time in Oberon I ate alone, watching the TV news over the bar in the local pub. I didn’t stay more than an hour because by early evening I was totally wrung out by the volume of writing I had done – sometimes up to 5,000 words a day. One evening two rather ragged-looking blokes were sitting in the bar as I ate my toasted sandwich. In their mid-thirties, they were a scruffy pair with gnarled hands, more than a few teeth missing and hair that appeared not to have been washed or brushed for weeks. I took them to be timber workers, as Oberon is a big forestry region, and I also gathered that they had probably been in the pub all day because they were past the point of coherence. One called out to me.
‘Gidday luv, ow’ya goin’?’
‘Fine,’ I said, continuing to eat and watch the news.
‘You know somethin’, luv,’ he continued, ‘you look great.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking I should probably down my beer quickly and leave.
‘If anyone tells you that you don’t look great, luv, don’t you believe them. Because you look great,’ he went on, trying to win me over with his backhanded compliment.
He then staggered around the bar and stood close, far too close for comfort, pressing his snaggle-toothed, beery mouth to my ear.
‘You know somethin’, luv,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘You could do better than me.’
I stifled a laugh and responded, ‘You know something, I probably could,’ bolting my sandwich and making a hasty retreat, laughing at his self-deprecating, clumsy pick-up line that for me was quintessential Australian male. I don’t know how he thought I would respond, but probably not quite the way I did.
3
After nearly two weeks of frenetic writing the book had evolved to a stage where it was virtually complete. I had carefully gone through and removed all reference to the love affair. I hoped instead that the chapters I had written about the joy and excitement of finding my sister Margaret after a separation of nearly fifty years would give the book the emotional resonance it needed. I had written about this extraordinary tale of family separation in Au Revoir when I described my early childhood with alcoholic parents, and my half-sister who left our dysfunctional home and never returned. After the book was released, a reader contacted me with information on Margaret’s whereabouts in Canada, and I was able to contact her and then visit her in person. It was the happiest of reunions, and I told the story in the new book.
I curled up on the hotel bed and started to read through the entire manuscript from where I had begun writing more than twelve months before.
It’s very difficult reading back over your own work and I often avoid doing so unless pressured into it by a persistent editor. But it was essential to get a feeling for the book as whole, so I set aside time just for reviewing it all. As I turned the pages I realised that what I had written had a hollow ring to it. It just didn’t make sense. The central character, me, was in a state of turmoil. My distress and confusion were obvious but there was little explanation for this, other than my menopausal condition and my questioning of my long-term relationship with my husband. I found the narrative deeply unsatisfying, and knew that anyone reading this book would feel as though they had been left dangling. I knew at that moment I had to tell the rest of story, no matter how painful. All or nothing. I returned to the computer and sat through the night reinstating the sections pertaining to the affair.
Then I phoned David and told him of my change of heart.
‘I think you’d better come home now,’ he said.
So I packed up my belongings – having first emailed myself the finished manuscript as a back-up – and drove the bumpy one hour back to Yetholme. It was lovely to be home, although the paddocks were bleached white from the hot dry winds and one dam had completely dried up. The bushfires that had been raging in the region had not come close this time, but the potential was always there, the farm being surrounded by pine forests and remnants of native vegetation.
I returned the computer to my office desk, hooked it up to the printer, then printed out the five hundred o
r so pages for David to read.
It was a gut-churning day and a half. He sat in the back room drinking wine and smoking cigars while he methodically read through the book. Sometimes I’d hear him laugh, which was a great relief. But then he’d go quiet for what seemed like hours at a time. It was nail-biting.
Eventually he emerged and handed me back the well-thumbed pages.
‘It’s an amazing book,’ he said. ‘Very honest, very funny, very sad. But I’m never going to like it. To be quite honest, I hate it. But I totally support your right to write about your life and what has been happening to you these last few years.’
That was it. I hugged him but he stiffened under my embrace. He was still deeply hurt and traumatised by the events of the last year. But he wouldn’t stand in my way.
He had flagged various pages in the text where he had concerns and together we worked to tidy up the final draft. Then to further demonstrate his support he actually delivered the final printed-out copies to the publisher’s Sydney offices. On deadline, double-spaced, with the pages tied together with red satin ribbon.
My relief at getting the book finished while not destroying my marriage at the same time was palpable. I thought our troubles had finished, but they were only just beginning.
4
My life has always been a juggling act. As a child I tried to juggle the unpredictable emotions of my unstable parents and from an early age developed all sorts of strategies for maintaining family harmony. I found that by being bright and cheerful, amusing and helpful, I could defuse family tensions and keep life on a more even keel. I carried these techniques for handling difficult situations into adulthood and they have certainly come in very handy during my complex life. I juggled a demanding career while rearing four children and managed that most delicate of tightrope acts, negotiating good relations in an extended family that included my career-driven husband and my hard-drinking and frequently difficult mother.
